They had written a note, said the neighbours, but had forgotten to leave it; indeed primarily they had forgotten to write it and so had written it then forwarded it back from their undisclosed destination when they reached it, not deliberately undisclosed but because they hadn’t time or memory or understanding to put a sender’s address at the top. According to the postmark it was not just a country over a water, but a country over many, many waters. Also, they forgot their former address, the house they’d lived in for twenty-four years ever since getting married until twenty-four hours earlier when they left.

Self: Guilt is a country. Sometimes in order to go forward, one must have a memory wipe.

It took self a few days to get through the Foreword by Alice Walker and the Introduction by Deborah G. Plant. Now, she’s about to begin the book proper.

Just before the Preface is a photograph:

That little gap of ocean was all the slaves saw as they crowded together in the Slave House, the last stop before they were loaded onto ships that took them to lands of untold misery.

Zora Neale Hurston in the Preface, dated 17 April 1931:

I was sent by a woman of tremendous understanding of primitive peoples to get this story.

It is so uncommonly sad to read the Preface. The slaves entered the barracoon as human beings; little did they know it would be the last time they would feel themselves as such. From that point onward, they were mere cattle.

Self has no idea. She would never have posted it, though, if she hadn’t been looking for a photo where “background,” or anyway the idea of background, was key.

So, it’s all good.

It turns out self’s fondest memories of Venice are not the paintings, not the magnificent churches, but the vaporetto rides. Which thousands of people take every day, on their way to and from work in the city.

Self is a writer. As a writer, she is always searching for a plausible story.

That is how she deals with reality. That is how she copes.

The shooter (she will never refer to him by name, as if to perpetuate his memory. Never) killed “someone” at his home.

He was purportedly targeting his mother.

Was she a teacher? Did he walk into her classroom and kill her? Did he then decide to take along every one of her students?

Then self learned that the shooter’s guns belonged to his mother.

Whaaaat? What business did the woman have for keeping that many guns in her home?

She was divorced, middle-aged.

Ergo: guns???

Then it turned out the mother was shot at home. So the shooter went to the school afterwards. He was denied entry at first, but forced his way in.

OK, who denied that shooter entry at first? And was that person the shooter’s second victim? And how did the shooter force his way into a school? If there is no one to stop you, how can you be described as forcing your way in? What exactly does this mean, that reports say he “forcefully gained entrance”? Is forcefully gaining entrance the same as forcing one’s way in? Does that mean someone physically stands in your way? Or is that someone just questioning you and asking to see some form of ID? If one fails to show an ID but continues sauntering towards a classroom, can one then be described as forcing one’s way in? Where does the “force” come in? Self doesn’t know how or who or what tried to prevent the shooter’s entry. But that’s what all the news reports say: The shooter forced his way in.

At times like these, what better way to salve one ‘s spirits than a glass of good, dark, Guinness Draft Beer!

Last Outing: Beer at the Sun Inn, Dalkeith

Self will sorely miss the scintillating conversations she had with these two, Marylee and Joan.

What self will NOT miss: How much weight she’s gained here in Scotland. Scottish breakfasts are positively huge, dear blog readers. And lunch follows only three hours later. Then, because one’s tummy has been stoked (already) by the rich food, one simply cannot hold one’s horses until the 7 p.m. dinner. And that’s when the butterscotch tablets come out. And the scones and tea. Aaaargh, aaaaargh, aaaaargh.

Today, self went to the Elephant House. She took pictures of a bulletin board festooned with drawings of elephants:

Children mail drawings of elephants to The Elephant House, billed as “The Birthplace of Harry Potter”

On another bulletin board were many pictures of a (very young) J. K. Rowling.

In the comfort room was scrawled, on one wall:

If you would like to bang (or make love to) Hermione, put a check mark here.

There were 10 check marks.

Funny, self thought there would be more.

Just to the right of the above scrawled message (Self is amazed that she actually had the wherewithal to take notes on what was written on the bathroom walls — but, anything for “ze blog”!!!) was another:

If you are sane (or cool enough) to realize that Hermione would have nothing to do with you, put a check mark here.

Beneath this message were eight check marks.

Meat pie with mashed potatoes and gravy: Self’s lunch today at The Elephant House. Self noticed that most of the patrons who ordered this accompanied their meal with a large glass of milk!